


Winchester's Haunted House

by deansmultitudes, Kitmistry



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Meetings, Ghost!Castiel, Halloween, Haunted House, M/M, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:08:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27313825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deansmultitudes/pseuds/deansmultitudes, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitmistry/pseuds/Kitmistry
Summary: For the Halloween evening, Dean turns his new home into a haunted house for neighboring kids. But once all the guests are gone, is when the real haunting begins.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 15
Kudos: 83
Collections: Promptus Exchangarama





	Winchester's Haunted House

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written as a collaboration between deansrightfulangerissue and Kitmistry for Writers of Destiel's Promptus Exchangarama. The prompt 'haunted hause'
> 
> Thanks for beta to [theimportanceofbeingvictoria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theimportanceofbeingvictoria/pseuds/theimportanceofbeingvictoria)
> 
> Also check out our other Halloweeney collab fic [The Samhain Feast](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27315073)!

The thunder rolls in the distance. A symphony of high pitched screams follows. Dean couldn’t imagine more solid timing if he orchestrated it himself. He’s standing by the door, the complete darkness only broken by the quickly thickening flashes of lightning and the dots of green lamps lining the walls at ankle level and marking the way.

Hey, it’s safety first at Winchester's haunted house.

He’s ready for the big finale—the last finale of the night—and judging by the approaching squeaks and laughs, the kids’ll come out round the corner right about— 

With a flick of the flashlight held beneath his chin, Dean jumps out, all glistening horns and sharp teeth, and the repainted trident from his Aquaman cosplay, in front of the three wide-eyed faces and blocking their way out.

Eliot springs about a foot back; Stacy lets out a screech and recoils back into Max’s embrace. Max is the tough one, shielding her girlfriend with her arm and Dean can’t help but break his character for a soft smile.

But he’s still got lines to run. He clears his throat and puts his act back on.

“You think you can just run out of here?” he booms. “You are never leaving here!”

He dissolves into a villainous laughter that kinda works on the younger kids. With teens, it lights up the mood and eases the tension.

“I hate you, Dean,” Stacy blurts out, hiding her embarrassment behind a chuckle. Then she adds something about never letting her friends drag her into this place again.

Eliot doesn’t hear that, or is too excited to care. “It was so cool!” he says, as Dean turns on the light. The decor only loses a bit of its creepy charm in the dim, yellow glow. “Especially the ghost thing downstairs! How did you do that?”

Dean’s about to spill all about the intricate mechanism he spent weeks on building before he remembers he’ll have to scare those kids next year, somehow.

“Wouldn’t you like to know my secrets.” He smirks, and moves aside, to reveal what’s left of his huge bowl of candy. “Grab some sweets and I’ll go take all of this off and drive you home. The rain’s getting nasty.”

“Nah, it’s fine. We’ll dash before the storm hits the town,” Max says, fishing for something in the bowl. At last she finds a strawberry lollipop and hands it to Stacy.

Dean doesn’t insist. The kids live a little ways down the street and the storm’s still about eight Mississippis away. A little water and mud isn’t gonna hurt them.

“Alright, just be careful, the path’s slippery,” Dean warns.

As they walk out to the porch, pulling their jackets above their heads, Eliot keeps chirping excitedly. “I’m sure it was some sort of a projector. It looked so real.”

Dean’s gotta admit, he’s quite proud of that whole ghost thing. But a projector is a far off guess. Would be much easier, though. Probably good to remember it for next year. It will make his Leticia Gore just the right amount of translucent, if he manages to cast her right.

Dean locks the door behind the kids. This has been a fun evening, but it’s also been exhausting and all Dean wants to do right now is plop down in front of his tv with a beer in hand and watch some classic horror movie to finish Halloween off the right way.

But he’s gotta get rid of the horns first, and those fake teeth that have begun to irritate his mouth a little. So he drags himself upstairs to the bathroom, dropping his cape on the railing, not even minding the cobwebs. He’s really not looking forward to cleaning this whole mess tomorrow but there’s gotta be a price for being the coolest dude with the coolest house in the whole town—for tonight, at least.

It’s also how he excuses putting off the total renovation of the inherited property. He really meant to, but it’s not like he’s got the money or the time. In fact, selling would probably work out best for him. But he’s not leaving this house. Dean never used to be attached to places. It’s different now.

Besides, as long as the construction is solid, he’s fine with a few squeaky stairs and a butt-ugly exterior that scares off the neighbors’ children from hopping over the fence to retrieve their wayward soccer balls. Not that Dean would mind that at all. He never even locks the gate. And he tosses all the toys back when he finds them.

Alright, so Dean might actually have a soft spot for kids. He wouldn’t be putting himself through the ordeal of de-hauntifying his home otherwise.

“De-hauntifying,” he mutters to himself, smirking into the bathroom mirror. That’s not a word, is it? Exorcising sounds more like it. Except, luckily, he’s not gonna need the Warrens to get rid of this haunting.

The make-up remover that Charlie gave him has an annoyingly sweet smell and isn’t doing crap. He keeps rubbing the skin beneath his eye to wipe off the dark shadow that served a neat hellish look but it’s only turning him into a crying chick who got dumped at a party, or something.

He decides to risk it with good, old-fashioned water and soap. He leans down to the sink and splashes his face then does his best not to get the foam in his eyes in order to not to end up in actual tears.

He looks up into the mirror. Something moves. Like a shadow. Behind him. He snaps around.

There's nothing there, no one.

There are no mechanical spooks there either that could, for one last breath, take on a life of their own just to click to their resting position—Dean's bedroom and bathroom were off-limits for the visitors. They’re his sanctuary after all.

But he could swear— He blinks. The atmosphere of Halloween must be getting to him, making him see things.

He dries off his face with a towel. Takes a quick look into the mirror. Nothing. Good.

Or maybe it's the whole living in an old creepy house thing. It's been a few months and even in the middle of the night he's never felt anything off. And it's not like Dean even believes in ghosts or the veil, let alone that it could be thinner on Halloween. He's not twelve anymore, holding tight into his blanket when Ash and Benny scared the bejesus out of him with their scary stories. And even then, he tried to stay brave.

So when he decides to forgo the beer, it’s, of course, to save himself the trip downstairs, that’s all. The half-eaten pack of Doritos is good enough, anyway. And the original Night of the Living Dead should already be on.

Except, as soon as he turns on the tv, the lightning and the thunder hit simultaneously somewhere too close for comfort. The tv’s out and so is the lamp on the nightstand.

“Friggin’ storm,” Dean mutters, stuffing his face full of Doritos.

Another flash of lightning. It casts stroboscopic light on the tall figure by the door.

Dean jumps up and nearly chokes on the snacks. He grabs his phone off the nightstand, fumbles with it for a moment trying to turn on the flashlight.

There’s no one there. Not by the door, not anywhere in his room. But there are no piles of clothes or weirdly stacked boxes left from moving, nothing that could take on a shape of a person to his oddly alert mind. But the door is open and he’s not entirely sure he left it that way. He never really pays mind to closing it since he’s lived on his own.

Could someone be there and run off so quietly or be hiding in the corridor or—

A stair creaks. Dean’s sure as hell he heard it right because he walks down that staircase every single day, hears that creak loud and clear in the mornings when everything else is silent.

Dean hops off the bed without making a sound. In moments like this, he wishes he owned a gun. A golf club pulled from the closet will have to do. Who’d think his brief stunt into respectable and boring would one day pay off.

Armed, he sneaks up to the door, carefully cranes his neck to peak into the corridor. Nothing. He keeps walking.

Every crack of thunder makes him almost jump out of his skin, but he keeps walking until he reaches the top of the staircase. He shines the light on it but there’s no one standing there, not on the creaky stair half way, not at its feet.

He makes sure the area is clear so that no one jumps him from behind when he goes down. He’s beginning to feel a little idiotic, the firmly held club, raised high, his phone illuminating the way ahead. This isn’t a horror movie. It’s just his brain playing tricks on him.

He sweeps the hallways with the light and takes a deep breath. There’s no one there. The door’s still locked. There’s no draft or rustle of downpour coming from any windows.

He lowers the golf club and lets out a chuckle. He’s being ridiculous.

But since he’s here, he might as well grab that beer. He walks into the kitchen but he doesn’t reach the fridge.

Right there, by the counter, there’s the dark figure. When Dean shines light on it, it doesn’t disappear. It’s a man with dark, messy hair and a pale coat that’s too big for him. By the way the light reflects off the set of fake bloodied knives spread on the counter behind the guy, Dean knows his club isn’t gonna do squat.

Dude’s a ghost.

A real, bonafide, freakin’ ghost—no clockwork puppets or projectors.

Dean’s frozen still, as the ghost lifts its wide, blue eyes to him, slowly, and opens his mouth.

“Hello, Dean.”

***

Castiel wasn’t sure what Dean’s reaction was going to be, his guesses ranging from surprised but cool to downright terrified. Anyone else Castiel tried to talk to in the past…well, it has to be decades ago by now, had that kind of reaction. 

Dean falls somewhere in between. His face goes ashen, mouth falling open around a silent gasp, and he jumps a little. His hold on his phone remains steady, though. 

“Who— Who are you?” he stutters, holding the club between them in warning. 

Castiel knows it won’t hurt him, but he steps back to allow Dean the illusion of having some control here.

“I’m Castiel,” he says, holding Dean’s gaze. “This is my house.”

“Dude, no,” Dean says with a hysterical laugh. “This is  _ my _ house. I inherited it from a family friend half a year ago! I live here.”

“Rufus, I know. He was an interesting guy,” Castiel says, suppressing a sigh. Explaining to people who are still alive is so troublesome. He’d thought Dean would be smarter than your average mortal but alas, discovering ghosts and hence the afterlife, since that’s usually the next question, exist apparently is a concept hard to grasp. “I saw you moving in and trying to repair the house. There’s mold growing on the wall behind your wardrobe by the way. You might want to take a look at that.”

Dean blinks at him, the hand holding the club falls by his side, and he opens his mouth in quick succession several times. At last, and just as Castiel was beginning to think maybe it was time to abort this plan, Dean says, “That’s it?”

Castiel stares at him. 

Dean’s shoulders sag, and he drops the club on the nearest counter in favor of rubbing his eyes. “I have a ghost haunting me, and all it wants from me is to do more housework?”

“First of all I’m not haunting  _ you, _ I’m haunting the house. And it’s a good house, I’d hate to see it collapse because you didn’t check behind your wardrobe, Dean.”

That makes Dean snort, though Castiel can’t see what’s funny. Mold is a serious problem for a homeowner. Having spent the last few months watching Dean, Castiel had thought he was responsible. He should be thankful Castiel brought such a serious problem to his attention. 

“Your reason for haunting me is...boring,” Dean says, making a gesture like his explanation should have been obvious. 

Castiel frowns. “I’m sorry to disappoint.”

“Nah, it’s fine. I mean, you almost gave me a heart attack, but you look like a cool dude. Non-threatening. A little nerdy maybe but friendly.” 

Green eyes travel from Castiel’s face down to his shoes hovering an inch or so from the ground, and back up. 

Invisible fingers trace a shiver down Castiel’s spine. God, he didn’t know he could feel things like that anymore, but a lot of things he’d thought long forgotten have resurfaced since Dean moved into this house. Things he’s still too nervous to name. 

Dean snaps his fingers, snapping Castiel out of his thoughts, too, in the process. “Cas the friendly ghost, hey it fits!”

That doesn’t mean anything to Castiel. He cocks his head to the side. 

This time, Dean rolls his eyes. “Oh come on. Casper the friendly ghost? And you’re Castiel? So it’s Cas?”

“I don’t understand that reference.”

“How is that possible? Do you live under a rock or something?”

“No, I’m not alive. I thought we’d established that already.”

With a frustrated groan, Dean throws his arms in the air in surrender.

Castiel’s not sure what their argument was about, but he probably won it. Satisfaction trickles down his non-corporeal body. He was right. Dean is nice to talk to. And his eyes are a brighter shade of green up close. 

Dean spins around, frowning at the dark lightbulb above their heads then back down at Castiel.

“Sorry. I think that was me,” Castiel says at Dean’s accusing stare.

“You think?” Dean says, fists on his hips. Then he reaches to open the fridge. “Fuck, I need a drink. This night is so weird. You want one?” He waves a bottle of beer in Castiel’s direction. A beat, where Castiel narrows his eyes at him, and a hysterical laugh escapes Dean. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Castiel says. Really, Dean has been nothing but polite since Castiel appeared in front of him. This small slip is nothing compared to Rufus, who tried throwing salt at Castiel every time he saw him. Didn’t quite do the trick.

“Shit, you’re dead, you can’t drink,” Dean mutters, a hand over his mouth. He shakes his head with disbelief. 

“I know it’s a lot to take in.”

Dean raises a finger to silence him. “No, no. I’m handling this. Everything is under control.” He uses the counter to open the bottle and takes a sip. “Totally under control.” Another sip and a hiss. “So, Cas.”

Castiel doesn’t even try to question the nickname this time. He just waits patiently while Dean stares out in the distance, trying to find a way to finish his sentence.

“What can I do for you?” Dean asks finally, and of all the questions Castiel was expecting, this one wasn’t even on the list. 

“Do for me?”

“Well, yeah. You’re haunting this place, so do you have some unfinished business? Do you need my help to cross into the light? Wait, do you even see a light?” 

“I—” Castiel squints at the cabinets of the kitchen around them, illuminated only by Dean’s phone, left face down on one of the counters sometime ago. Its pale, muted light casts long shadows over the walls, but it passes through him without touching him. “I don’t see any light. And I don’t know if I have any unfinished business. I’m just… here. A tree fell on me during a storm fifty years ago, and I woke up like this, and that’s it.”

Dean nods. Drinks again. Purses his lips. “Okay. Um, why didn’t you appear sooner?”

Castiel feels his form flicker with embarrassment. “Your fake ghost is not working.” It's not a lie. It's just not the whole truth. But the whole truth would reveal exactly how Castiel’s existence has gotten brighter since Dean moved in, and the fake ghost breaking down was just an excuse for Castiel to man up and talk to Dean.

“I’m sorry?”

“The fake ghost you set up for your ‘haunted house’?” Castiel sees the way Dean’s eyes linger on his finger quotes, but he chooses not to comment on it. “Your ghost was not working. I thought it’d be a shame if all your hard work went to waste so I decided to help out.”

“Thanks. I guess.”

“You’re welcome.”

“So do we… What do we do now?” Dean asks. 

Castiel considers that for a moment. “I don’t know. I haven’t done much besides wander around lately.”

“What do you do for fun?”

“I sit under the sun and pretend I can still feel the warmth?”

_ Watch people go on with their lives while I'm stuck?  _ Yeah, that one is probably too depressing.

“Cas, that’s sad,” Dean says, gulping down the rest of his beer. He grabs another. 

Castiel opens his arms in a helpless gesture. “What do you do for fun?”

“I watch movies,” Dean says. 

“Then can I watch a movie with you?”

Castiel hopes his desperation doesn’t leak through his words. He’s been so lonely for so long. So bored. Longing for someone to talk to, someone who doesn't scream when Castiel appears, someone who won't sell the house the moment they realize it comes with its previous owner. Someone kind and loving, who treats the house with care, who is tender with the overgrown garden, who is friendly with his neighbors, who laughs and the whole room lights up with it.

Someone like Dean.

Dean shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He shrugs. "Why not? I'll just make some pop-corn, if you'll allow my electricity to go back to normal that is. Night of The Living Dead is on."

"That sounds...appropriate for Halloween," Castiel comments. He takes a deep, unnecessary breath and on his exhale the light flickers back on.

"It's perfect for Halloween." Dean grins at him, wide and warm and Castiel's form flickers again. A light upstairs pops, but he thinks it's better not to mention that right now.

While Dean prepares his snack, Castiel takes the time to reign in his emotions. There won't be a movie night if he keeps frying electrical devices. Though that's easier said than done, as it turns out.

Dean is… Dean is lovely. There's no other word for him really. He's beautiful, yes, but Castiel already knew that from watching him from afar, and now that he has all of Dean's attention… Saying he's addicted would be an understatement.

Dean is funny and engaging, and he invites Castiel to sit on his bed with him when he turns on the TV and starts the movie. He keeps a running commentary with his opinions on the characters' choices or personal anecdotes the movie reminds him of. Halfway through, the topic of conversation has steered away from the movie altogether, and Castiel finds himself sharing his own stories. He even makes Dean laugh a couple of times, a rich sound, full of life, which Castiel decides then and there he'll cherish for the rest of his existence.

When Dean falls asleep eventually, Castiel stays by his side, watching his chest rise and fall, counting the freckles dusted over his nose. Creepy? Maybe. But he's a ghost, so who cares.

It could have been a few minutes or it could have been hours—Castiel's not good at keeping track of time anymore—but Dean's eyes flutter open, and he frowns at Castiel.

"So we're roommates now?"

Castiel's long dead heart flutters under his throat. "Yes. I'd like that, Dean. I'd like that very much."

"Cool. Guess I'll see you in the morning, Cas," Dean says and falls right back asleep.

Cas sinks further into the mattress of Dean's bed—literally. His whole body is glowing, though he tries to keep it under control so he won't disturb Dean. For the first time in half a century he feels alive again instead of just existing. 

For the first time, he thinks being a ghost might have been worth it, if only because he met Dean.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos always very much appreciated!


End file.
